


once gone, seasons come back

by staccato



Series: things i'll never finish [3]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Drabble, Gen, High School, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 20:15:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20088115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staccato/pseuds/staccato
Summary: after spending the rest of middle school competing in america, echizen ryoma returns to japan, intent on leading seigaku to nationals once more. his mother, however, has other plans...aka: ryoma attends hyoutei.





	once gone, seasons come back

**Author's Note:**

> just like seasons, people change. but the difference is, once gone, seasons come back.

Hyoutei is…huge.

Ryoma pauses at the gates, staring up at the building in which he will attend classes for the incoming school year. It’s tall and wide and _garish,_ and Ryoma shouldn’t be here, he should be at Seigaku.

“Hey! Move it!”

A heavy body shoves past him, shoulder smacking against his painfully, and Ryoma, against his will, finds himself stumbling forward. He barely managed not to fall face flat against the ground, and wouldn’t that have just been embarrassing? He could already imagine the headlines, hear the mocking titters, see the amusement in his opponent’s eyes—

“Are you alright?” A quiet voice asks.

Ryoma looks up.

It’s another boy, a bit taller and rounder than him, with dark brown hair and eyes and a gap between his two front teeth. He has a slight lisp when he speaks. There’s a tennis bag on his shoulder.

Fantastic. Of course, he shouldn’t be surprised. In a school with a tennis club of 200 members, he was bound to bump into a tennis player eventually.

He just didn’t think it would be this soon.

Fortunately, the boy didn’t seem to recognize him. He continues, “that was Takayama Daikil.” He points to the boy that had presumably bumped into him. He is tall and large, and had hair that seems to defy gravity. “He does that kind of stuff a lot. You know, try to intimidate others and establish himself as the ‘alpha male’ on the first day.” He pauses, taking a moment to assess Ryoma from head to toe. “You’re new to Hyoutei, aren’t you? Otherwise you would already know to avoid him.”

“Uh, yeah,” Ryoma agreed.

The boy didn’t seem bothered by his short answer. “In that case, welcome to Hyoutei Academy. My name is Masamune Akari.”

“Takeuchi Ryoma.”

Masamune nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Takeuchi-kun. And anyways, don’t worry about Takayama. He’ll get put into his place soon.”

Ryoma cocked his head in confusion, because, _what?_ _Is this guy gonna kill him?_

Masamune smiled a little. It was not a nice one. “Takayama is a member of the tennis club. For a time last year, he was even one of the eight Regulars. I have no doubt he’ll try to get that spot again in High School, but, well. The King would definitely not allow it. In fact, I do believe he will beat him ruthlessly for even suggesting the idea.”

The King!? Oh, bloody hell. Don’t tell him people actually call that Monkey King _King, _here. What crazy world has he stepped into?

“The King?” Ryoma asked carefully.

“It’s Atobe-sama!” Squealed a trio of girls walking by. They were even holding a poster that was bigger than two of them combined—no wonder they needed three to hold it—and had stars in their eyes. “Atobe-sama is the King of tennis, and of Hyoutei, and of the whole world!”

Ryoma stared after them, then looked back at Masamune. “They are kidding, right?”

Masamune chuckled, shaking his head. “I thought it was a bit ridiculous when I first heard about it, too—”

“A bit?” Ryoma muttered under his breath.

“—but eventually I got used to it. Come on, we’re having an assembly in the auditorium. The King is making a speech. I think it’ll make more sense once you actually met him.”

Ryoma sighed. He glanced forlornly back at the gates, which has already shut, and beyond it, the free world.

Damn his mother, and his father, and that stupid deal of theirs.

°

Like everything Hyoutei, the auditorium is ginormous. Yet Atobe’s presence still managed to fill it to the brim, until Ryoma felt like he could choke on all that ego and narcissism and pride.

He leaves before even five minutes have passed, and is all too aware of the stares boring into his back.

After all, who leaves during a King’s coronation?

A peasant, they guess, who doesn’t know any better; they mumble among themselves, shaking their heads at the boy’s stupidity. Ah well, he will see the truth, soon, they agree, and turn their attention once again back to their King.

°

There’s already another boy on the roof, sleeping.

Ryoma recognizes him, of course. Jirou Akutagawa still has the long, blond curly hair from his youth, and he still wears shorts that Ryoma has always believed to be his boxers. He has always wanted to play a match against him—that magical volley of his was definitely something he needed to watch out for, but if he hit the ball with enough strength, would Jirou be able to return it with his soft wrist?

He considers waking Jirou right now to demand the match, but thinks he wouldn’t appreciate it. The boy doesn’t seem to do anything unless told to by Atobe, and that Monkey King is still down there, making a grandiose speech Ryoma thinks he has made a thousand times already; he saw some people mouthing along to it, word by word, pause by pause. They don’t seem to be tired of it, either.

Ryoma was, though, and he wanted a nap.

But this roof, unlike that of Seigaku, was not a prime napping spot. Every part of it was fully exposed to the sun, except for a corner, shaded by the tall tree that grew besides the building. Unfortunately, it was already taken by Jirou, but…

Both of them were particularly thin, sharpened by years of this brutal sport called tennis, and Ryoma, who was fifteen, hasn’t finished going through puberty yet; he was still pretty short. He was almost certain he could also squeeze in beside Jirou.

He considers waking Jirou up, just to make sure the other boy was okay with sleeping in close proximity with someone else. After all, it would be a pretty rude awakening; then again, it would be ruder still to wake somebody up from their nap.

Decision made, Ryoma settled in under the shade, shoulder brushing against Jirou’s. He stuffed his backpack under his head to use as a pillow, and stretched out his legs in front of him. The sound of cicadas lulled him to sleep, and he could almost, almost believe he was back in America.

°

“Jirou-senpai! There you are! Atobe-senpai has—oh.”

Ryoma blearily opened one eye, and the face of Ootori Choutarou—gray haired, wide eyed, and cheeks blushed as he stared down at the two sleepy boys—came into view. His eyes flickered between Ryoma and Jirou, as fast as his famous Scud Serve, as he stammered out, “e-excuse me, senpai! I, I didn’t realize I was, uh, interrupting, erm—!”

“Yo, Choutarou, what’s the hold up?”

Shishido Ryou appeared besides Ootori, swinging an arm to rest around his neck and casually leaning into him, as if it is an unconscious habit. He looked to see what Ootori was staring at, and a devious grin appeared when he noticed the two boy’s proximity. “Ah, Jirou-kun! Finally found someone to sleep with, have you?”

Somehow, the red on Ootori’s face darkened even more. “Shi-shishido-senpai!”

“Whaat? Come on, Choutarou, I know you were thinking the same. I mean, about damn time, right?”

“You’re all so loud!” Jirou complained, suddenly awake. “Shhhh! One more minute!”

“Senpai!”

Jirou ignored Ootori, shuffling and shifting his lanky body into a more comfortable sleeping position. He turned to his side, and found himself looking at a boy he has never seen before.

“Who are you?” He mumbled.

“Takeuchi Ryoma,” the other boy replied.

“Why are you so close to me?”

Takeuchi shrugged. “It’s a good napping spot.”

Jirou agreed with that assessment completely. Of all the places he have tried in this school, this one was the best—high enough so it was warm, open enough so it was breezy, and shady enough so it was dark. He was so glad someone else thought the same. “It’s really great, isn’t it?”

Takeuchi nodded, eyes already closing. Jirou did the same, wanting to return to his dream. It was a good one: there had been a tennis match, and he was playing against Marui Bunta, who had made the ball walk along the net again—

“Jirou-senpai! Wake up! It’s time for tennis!”

Jirou didn’t move, already deep in his dreams—he’s gonna figure out how to hit the ball back this time, he knew it!—but the boy beside him did. Ryoma jolted upright, almost bumping foreheads with Ootori. They stared into each other’s eyes, surprised.

“Ah, sorry,” Ryoma said after a second, looking away.

Ootori waved it off, “don’t worry about it. I guess you're interested in joining the tennis club?”

“Something like that.”

“You better go, then,” Shishido interrupted. “Atobe doesn’t like latecomers, especially on the first day.”

Startled by the use of that name, Ryoma stopped in the process of gathering his things. “You don’t call him King?”

Shishido scoffed. “That ridiculous misnomer? Please. Atobe may be the Captain of the tennis club, and the heir to the Atobe business, but that doesn’t make him King,” he paused. “Wait, do you?”

“No,” Ryoma said. “It just seems like everyone else does.”

Shishido rolled his eyes. “Well, that’s Hyoutei for you. But you don’t have to call him King if you don’t want to. That guy’s head is big enough already.”

“Noted.”

“I’m Shishido Ryou, by the way.” He jerked his thumb at Ootori. “That’s Ootori Choutarou. We’re doubles partners for the tennis team.”

“Takeuchi Ryoma.”

Shishido studied him. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Ryoma shook his head.

Shishido chuckled. “Well, that’s alright. Don’t need to talk to play good tennis. Just ask Kabaji.” He hesitated, then grimaced. “Actually, don’t ask him, you’ll never get an answer out of him; he’ll just stare at you.”

“Hmm.”

“Come on, you two,” Ootori called out. Having managed to get Jirou onto his back, piggyback-style, he was now walking towards the stairs. “We’re going to be late.”

Shishido took a moment to scoop up Jirou’s bag, and quickly ran after Ootori. Ryoma followed at a more sedate pace, and together the <strike>three</strike> four of them headed towards the tennis court.

°

As previously noted, everything Hyoutei was huge.

That statement applied to the tennis court, and also the tennis club, itself. Ryoma remembers that there were two hundred members in middle school; that number seemed to have only grown in high school. The area around the court was so crowded that Ryoma could barely tell what was happening inside the fence. He could only tell something exciting was happening by the constant cheering, which was absolutely deafening.

He had arrived with Shishido and Ootori (and Jirou,) but they had disappeared, swallowed up by the crowd. Really, thought, it would be more accurate to say that the crowd had parted like the Red Sea, and three Regulars had just passed them like Moses of the old; the one the crowd tried to swallow was Ryoma, when he tried to follow them, like he was the King of Egypt. Ryoma had immediately lost sight of them.

Now they were inside the court with all the other Regulars, and Ryoma, who was a newcomer and a first year, was nothing more than one of the many spectators.

For now.

“Ah, Takeuchi-kun, was it?”

Ryoma turned at the voice to see that it was Masamune who had spoken. He nodded in recognition and in greeting. “Hello.”

Masamune reached out to tug him closer, so they could talk without having to scream. “Good, you’re still here. I was worried. I couldn’t find you during the assembly.”

Ryoma scratched the top of his head, wishing he had his cap to pull over his face. “I left.”

“Did you really?” Masamune asked, interest piqued. “You really didn’t like the King’s speech?”

Ryoma shook his head mutely.

“Then you’ll hate this, too,” Masamune said, pointing towards the court.

Ryoma followed his finger with his eyes. Masamune had chosen a good spot—they were on the edge of the hill, overlooking everything underneath. That is, the tennis courts. Only one seemed to be in use, with the Monkey King standing, arms raised victoriously, at one end, and Takayama, on his knees and hands, at the other end. A tennis racket, with its gut broken, was lying uselessly beside him.

“Ten! Ten! Ten!” The crowd chanted.

Ryoma frowned. “What’s happening?”

“It’s the Challenge,” Masamune said reverently. “It’s a tradition started by the King in his first year in middle school. At the beginning of the school year, he establishes his dominance by allowing anyone dissatisfied with his rule to play against him in tennis. If the King wins, the challenger can no longer question his authority. Takayama is the tenth challenger today.”

“And if he loses?”

Masamune frowned, looking disquieted. “He doesn’t. Lose a match, that is. Those who can take a game or two away from him,” he nodded towards the bleachers, where Shishido and Ootori are standing, “become Regulars, but he’s never lost a match. Ever.”

Well, that’s simply not true. “Didn’t he lost a match three years ago, though? Against the first year from Seigaku?” Ryoma asked casually.

Masamune laughed. “He didn’t really lose though, did he? I mean, he was the first to stand up. Not really his fault he lost consciousness.”

“It was such an inspiring moment,” chimed in another. “To see our Captain, even while unconscious, fighting for our place in the Nationals.”

Masamune nodded vigorously in agreement.

Ryoma glanced between the two, then at the rest of the admiring audience.

Okay, he decides, Hyoutei is officially weird.

Then he also thinks, well, fine, if that’s how they want to remember that match, then Ryoma will just have to beat Atobe again to show them that Atobe can lose.

“Hey, Masamune-kun, do you have a tennis racket I can borrow?”

°

The last time he played Atobe Keigo, he was twelve and young and was trying to be the Pillar of Seigaku, even though he didn’t really know what that meant, not really. He didn’t even know what his tennis was, just that his wasn’t enough and he needed to copy other’s to win, that he barely stepped out of his father’s shadows, only to be absorbed into Tezuka’s, that he found his own tennis so lacking, that he copied other people’s style, even unconsciously, to win the point, the game, the match, the trophy, the title.

It ruined him, a little.

This time, he’s a little older, a little wiser, a little better.

No less arrogant, though.

“Rough or smooth?” Atobe asks him, when Ryoma walks up to the court.

Ryoma raises an eyebrow. “Not going to take a break?”

Atobe waves a hand flippantly. “Ore-sama doesn’t need it. Rough or smooth?”

Well, it’s not like Ryoma is the only arrogant one.

“Smooth,” he decides.

Atobe spins the racket. It lands on the rough side.

“Che.”

Atobe says, “the generous Ore-sama will allow you to serve first.”

Ryoma doesn’t say anything in return. He just grabs the tennis ball and the borrowed racket and walks to the end of the court. Atobe does the same on the other side, knees bent and hands wrapped loosely around the handle of his racket as he waits for him to serve.

Around them, screams are erupting from the crowd, “eleven!” intermingled with “King!” and “Hyoutei!” and “the winner will be Atobe!” in a symphony of discordant sounds.

Ryoma wants them all to shut up.

The first serve does, but only for a little bit, before the whispers and the murmurs started.

“So fast—!”

“Could you see it?”

“220 km/hr? No way!”

Ryoma ignores them all. He only has eyes on Atobe, who blinks a little, seemingly coming out of his daze. He glances at the ball that has rolled to a stop at his feet, then looks up to smirk at Ryoma.

“Heh, not bad.”

“Thanks. Referee?”

“Uh, that is, fifteen-love!”

Ryoma serves again. Atobe darts for the ball, and misses.

“Thirty-love!”

Atobe glares at him, eyebrows puckering angrily. Ryoma is reminded of his Karupin after she is denied an extra treat. It’s adorable. He can’t resist goading him. “Come on, _King_. Aren’t you supposed to be good at this tennis thing?”

“Be quiet, you little brat.”

Ryoma snickers quietly to himself. He tosses the ball up in the air, hits it, and isn’t surprised to see it bounce back to him. Atobe has always had better eyes than anyone has given him credit for. Ryoma would be more shocked if Atobe hadn’t gotten used to the speed of the ball after seeing it twice.

It’s just too bad that that serve isn’t the fastest ball Ryoma can hit.

He catches up to the ball, which landed at the corner of the court, go figure, and hits it back, allowing himself to put a bit more strength into this swing.

The ball lands beside Atobe before he can even react.

“Forty-love!” The referee calls. At the announcement, the chatter among the crowd only grew louder.

“Amazing!”

“That was even faster than last time, wasn’t it?”

“Is he for real?”

Ryoma served again. Atobe doesn’t even bother diving for the ball, and that.

That annoys him, because it reminds him of those kids from Midoriyama, and those adults in the Pro circuit, who thinks they are being mature and wise by throwing away a game or two to conserve their energy; who look down on him for running around to get all the balls; who thinks he’s being childish and naïve.

Ryoma hates people like that, people who plays tennis like it’s a game of chess, when it’s just a tennis, a sport that should be played for fun.

(You shouldn’t have a sacrifice your arm just to win a middle school trophy.)

“Game…uh, what’s you name again, kid?”

“Takeuchi. Takeuchi Ryoma.”

The referee nodded. “Game Takeuchi; one zero. Switch court.”

When Ryoma looked again, Atobe’s eyes had lightened with recognition. “Ah, it is you. Ore-sama was worried you would choose not to attend Hyoutei.”

Ryoma narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean…” choose not to? Atobe shouldn’t have even known he applied. Unless… “you bastard! You screwed with my test results!?”

Atobe looked affronted. “Ore-sama would never take the time to do such plebian things.”

“Then what did you do, Monkey King? Because I should not have passed the entrance exam at all.” Ryoma snarled, angry in a way he hasn’t been in a long, long time. He had the perfect plan! Just because his mother forced him to take the entrance exam to Hyoutei, doesn’t mean he had do well on it. And he hadn’t. Ryoma had made sure to choose the wrong answers and write shitty responses, all in the hopes Hyoutei would reject him and he could go to Seigaku instead and play tennis with them and go to the Nationals and win—

Atobe had the gall to shrug. “Ore-sama did absolutely nothing.”

Ryoma tightened his grip on the racket, before flexing his fingers, one by one by one by one. “I’ll get you to admit it, one way or another.”

Atobe scoffed. “When you beat ore-sama, perhaps.”

“Already did,” Ryoma reminded him.

“And it won’t happen a second time,” Atobe insisted.

Ryoma hummed. “I supposed we’ll just have to see,” he said as he got into position at the end of the court, on the opposite side of where he had started this game. Atobe was serving, now.

Ryoma was going to make him pay for forcing him to attend Hyoutei.

°

“Ne, Yuushi, just who is that guy?”

Mukahi Gakuto draped himself over the shoulders of his doubles partner, Oshitari Yuushi, as they both lean forward to watch the match intensely. Their mouths drop open a little as they watch Atobe hit a beautiful Tannhauser serve, only for his opponent to return it easily with a front hop hoop.

And quickly, too. The ball flies out of Atobe’s reach before he can even react.

“Love-fifteen!”

“We met him earlier,” Ootori says. “When we left to find Jirou-senpai. He was, ah,” his face turned an unflattering shade of red.

“He was sleeping besides Jirou,” Shishido finishes with a crude wink. Then he becomes serious once more. “He said his name was Takeuchi Ryoma.”

Oshitari pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’ve never seen him around the school. Must be a first year, then.”

Shishido whistled Takeuchi scored another point. “He’s pretty good. Do you think he can actually beat Atobe?”

“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” Oshitari said.

“Gekokujo.” Hiyoshi Wakashi hissed out.

“It’s strange, though,” Oshitari adds, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I have never even heard of him before. A guy with a tennis like that should have made a name of himself by now, at least in the middle school circuit.”

Mukahi looked unconcerned. “Maybe he’s from like, a really rural part of Japan, and he’s here on scholarship.”

Ootori shook his head. “I doubt it. I couldn’t hear an accent when I was talking to him, although…” he hesitates, turning to Shishido, “do you think that’s why he talked so little?”

Shishido shrugged. “Who knows?”

The group fell silent, watching as Takeuchi returned another shot, and then another shot.

“Game Takeuchi: 2-0.”

“Hey, Atobe, what are you doing?” Shishido asked as Atobe changed courts, leaning his body over the sideboard; he would have fallen over if Ootori hadn’t grabbed his shirt in time, pulling him back to safety. “That kid’s gonna win if you don’t start attacking soon.”

“Shut up, Shishido,” Atobe snaps, annoyed. Of course he knows that, he’s not a moron, it’s just that…

Well, it’s not that he can’t attack, because he is not weak, damn it. But that brat isn’t weak, either. In fact, he’s definitely stronger than he was three years ago, and if Atobe lost to him then…

What chances does he have now?

_Maybe it was a bad idea to provoke him,_ Atobe thinks wryly. He takes a drink of his water, taken from Fuji and purified, of course. _But the boy has always been so fun to rile up. He was a like a little kitten._

Now, it seems, the kitten has sharpened his claws.

And Atobe was absolutely thrilled that he was joining the Hyoutei Tennis Team—they’ll get to the Nationals for sure this year, perhaps even win the darn thing—but he’s less pleased that the brat was using his new found abilities to beat Atobe at the moment. During the Challenge, no less. Why couldn’t he have until it was over to initiate a game? “Kabaji, towel.” He says instead.

“Usu,” Kabaji replies, handing him a towel, soft and white with an Atobe emblem stitched into the corner, and this is why Atobe like Kabaji: he does as he’s told and doesn’t ask stupidly hard questions, unlike _somebody._

Dislodging Mukahi in the process, Oshitari slides closer to where Atobe is standing, rubbing the towel over his neck. “The coach is here,” he whispers quietly.

Atobe refrains himself from looking to the top of the bleachers, because why does he care if Sakaki Tarou is here and watching? He’s going to win this; he’s not going to worry about whether or not the coach will drop him from the team.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, throwing the towel away and stomping back to the court angrily.

Where that brat is, standing at the baseline on the other side, dribbling a tennis ball with his left hand and holding a racket with the right—he’s not even using his dominant hand! Atobe realizes suddenly, humiliatingly. At least nobody seems to have figured that one out yet. Hopefully they never notice that he’s also got metal weights in his sweatbands.

As if hearing Atobe’s thoughts, the boy looks up, one corner of his lips tilting upwards in a smirk Atobe remembers from his youth. He expects for him to say something cocky and arrogant—made made dane, maybe?—and is surprised when he simply serves, instead.

The ball flies by him. Of course it does.

“Love-fifteen.”

But, wait. Wasn’t that slower than his previous serves?

Atobe narrows his eyes, uses his insight as he watches the next serve and—yes, it was.

“Love-thirty!”

Well, it made sense that the boy would be tiring. It would be impossible for anyone to be hitting shots that fast for that many times.

Still, that doesn’t mean the shots are slow, by any means.

“Love-forty!”

Atobe grits his teeth as the brat prepares to serve again. He’s almost just got it last time—

Thunk!

The crowd lets out a gasp as Atobe finally, finally manages to catch up to the ball. Although it hits the frame of his racket rather than the net, it is enough to send the ball over the net.

But Echiz—Takeuchi is already there at the net, poised to make a drop shot. Atobe rushes forward, but it’s not enough.

“Game Takeuchi: 3-0!”

“Ne, Atobe,” Mukahi says, when he goes to the stand to grab his water—although, does he really need it? It’s not like Takeuchi is even giving him chance to run. “Are you really struggling with this guy?”

“Shut up, idiot.”

Of course he was. He’s not Fuji Shuusuke, who pretends to lose the first four or five games just to make a (un)surprising comeback and humiliate his opponent. No, he prefers to establish his poweress immediately, starting with the first swing of his racket.

He’s not losing because he wants to. He’s losing because he can’t win.

He’s never been so frustrated.

(Well, not since the last time he’s played again Echizen. That match had started so easy, so boring that Atobe had expected to win 6-0, but then the brat had defied all expectations and used the Tezuka Zone, and then the tiebreaker had lasted forever, until—

Until he lost consciousness, apparently, and lost the match. 

And had his hair shaved, right there on the tennis court, in front of his entire tennis team. And he couldn’t do a single thing to stop the little demon, because a) he had been unconscious and b) he had bet on it, didn’t he?

It was a good lesson in humility, Atobe supposed afterwards, when he woken with a shiny, bald head.)

“Tired already, Monkey King?” the boy yells from his end of the court, spinning his tennis racket around his wrist like that acrobat from Seigaku used to do.

How can Atobe ignore a direct challenge like that? “Of course not; ore-sama is just getting started.”

The boy hums. Clearly he doesn’t believe he just said. “Right. Get on the court then.”

Atobe quietly snarls, throwing the water bottle behind him as he stalks back onto the court. He doesn’t even attempt a Tannhauser server, instead throwing the ball in the air and hitting it hard and fast.

But the boy is already there, and he hits the ball back. Atobe runs for it, fully expecting to miss, yet…

He doesn’t.

His racket hits the ball, a solid smack that sends it back over the net, just barely in the boundary lines.

On the other side of where the boy was standing.

"Fifteen-love,” the referee calls out hesitantly, as if he was surprised that Atobe had managed to score a point.

To be fair, Atobe was shocked too. However, he immediately replaces his expression with one of utter confidence, allowing his lips to curl into a smirk.

“Go Atobe!” He hears Gakuto cheers from the sidelines. The rest of his team, then his club, then his school, quickly follow his lead.

“I knew he could do it!”

“It was just a fluke, wasn’t it?”

“Atobe is the King, after all.”

Atobe looks across the net, to where the boy is, just in time to catch his expression change from one of pleasure to anger. He glares up, where his classmates are now cheering Atobe’s name.

“My my my, so loyal,” Atobe hears him mutter, and has to force himself to repress a shiver.

“Losing your touch?” He says instead.

The boy looks up, lips curling into that so very familiar smirk. “Not at all. I just wanted to test something.”

“Test something?” Atobe repeats, confused.

“Yeah,” the boy confirms. “Did you know, that was only 50% of my power?”

Atobe still. _Only 50%? The boy must be kidding…_

_But what if he wasn’t?_

“Why aren’t you using 100% of your power?” He demands angrily.

The boy shrugs, as infuriating as ever. “I tried using 80%, but you couldn’t get the ball,” he says. “Remember? You lost three games to me.”

“I…”

“Which was no fun. If I wanted easy wins I would have just stayed in America.” The boy continues. “So I decreased my power, but now…” he glances to the side again. “Now they’re just gonna say I got tired, aren’t they?”

“That seems likely,” Atobe admits.

“They’re spread even more lies if I left, right now.” The boy muses. He closes his eyes, appearing pained, before opening them and focusing on Atobe. “Right, let’s finish this.”

Predictably, Atobe loses.

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally meant to be the start of a longer fic, detailing ryoma's experience as he and the rest of the hyoutei team competes in and wins the nationals. it would explore his relationship with hyoutei, other high school tennis teams, and the professional tennis world, of which he was a part of for two years, and which left him a little...fucked up, mentally. unfortunately, it appears that i would never get around to writing all of that, but i thought i should at least post what i have. if you want to continue this story, please feel free to do so. just let me know in the comments below.
> 
> otherwise, thank you for reading! kudos make me really happy, and i welcome any constructive criticism :)


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